


Ever so much more than twenty

by the_alchemist



Category: Peter Pan (2003), Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Consensual Kink, Death, F/M, Fetish, Growing Up, Imaginary Friends, Magic Realism, Meta, Tea, Time - Freeform, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:21:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_alchemist/pseuds/the_alchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1920s London. A successful children's author is invited discuss a mysterious commission, and finds herself reunited with a figure from her earliest sexual fantasies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever so much more than twenty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deanna (SweetSorcery)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetSorcery/gifts).



> _"Smee," he said huskily, "that crocodile would have had me before this, but by a lucky chance it swallowed a clock which goes tick tick inside it, and so before it can reach me I hear the tick and bolt." He laughed, but in a hollow way._
> 
>  _"Some day," said Smee, "the clock will run down, and then he'll get you."_
> 
>  _Hook wetted his dry lips. "Ay," he said, "that's the fear that haunts me."_
> 
>  **James Matthew Barrie, _Peter and Wendy_ (1911)**   
> _  
> _

 

            The invitation gave no indication either of the request's nature, or of the identity of he who requested it, though it occurred to Wendy afterwards that the remuneration offered should have given her at least an inkling of the former. Would she still have gone had she realised? She preferred to leave that question unanswered.

            She dressed a little more fashionably than was her wont, in her green silk dress, and two strings of black glass beads. Jane wanted her to wear a feather in her hair, but Wendy decided that would be too much for afternoon tea, especially at _her_ age.

            "You be good now," she said, kissing Jane goodbye, and smiling at the new nurse.

            Before the war, Tommy had taken her to the Ritz twice a year, on her birthday and their anniversary. It would be strange to go there again, now everything was so different.

 

            There was no sign of her host when she arrived, ten minutes early, so she took her gloves off and ordered herself a pot of Earl Grey, before going to powder her nose. When she returned, he was there, sitting on a sofa, wearing an old-fashioned morning suit, his black leather briefcase beside him.

            She made a very good job of hiding her astonishment. And of course, there wasn't really anything to be astonished about. Despite the aquiline nose, the dark, angular eyebrows, and those sea green eyes that looked at her in a way that seemed to search out everything about her, it couldn't actually have _been_ him. He was dead, she'd watched him die. And besides, he hadn't existed in the first place.

            He offered her his left hand, which she shook, smiling, and they exchanged names. James Matthew. Wendy Toole.

            The resemblance really was remarkable, though, and it was certainly to _him_ , and not to her father, though in terms of facial features the two had been almost identical (what would Doctor Freud have made of that?) Her father had two hands, of course, and more importantly, her father was (she very much hoped) incapable of looking at anyone in a way that gave them _that_ kind of feeling, in _that_ part of their body.

            Both of them sat down. Mr Matthew broke eye contact to summon a waitress, and Wendy realised she'd been holding her breath. She had to make an effort not to sag, so strong was the feeling of having been released.

            Once they both had tea and sandwiches in front of them, Mr Matthew described precisely what he required, using a number of words Wendy had only ever seen written down before, and not in publications that she would admit to having heard of, let alone read. He spoke, however, as though they were all quite unremarkable things, the kind of things everyone around them might politely be discussing.

            Despite her surprise, Wendy simply smiled and took another sip of tea. "Mr Matthew," she said. "What intrigues me is why you thought _I_ would be a suitable writer to fulfil this assignment. What reputation I have was gained in the field of writing for children, and I'm sure you will agree that what you have requested would be quite unsuitable for anyone of tender years."

            Mr Matthew nodded. "Quite unsuitable," he agreed. "And as to why I chose you. Well ... let me see." He opened the briefcase, and took out a copy of Wendy's first novel. " _Smugglers' Cove_ ," he said. "In which a daring young band of adventurers take on a gang of smugglers and their fearsome (but highly charismatic) leader Jacob D'Auvergne, with his black moustache, red coat, and a hook instead of a right hand." Without pausing, he took out her second novel. " _Escape from the Dark Tower_. In which the young heir to a kingdom is abducted by her handsome but tormented cousin, who has lusted for power ever since his hand was bitten off by a tiger when he was sixteen." The he took her latest one. " _Queen of the High Seas_ , in which our youthful heroine escapes an arranged marriage, dresses as a boy, and sails on a pirate ship, alongside the dark, brooding Captain McAvinchey, who–"

            Wendy held up her hands and laughed. "Yes, yes," she said. "I take your point. Every author has preferred character types, from Aristophanes to Shakespeare to Mrs Woolf. It's hardly ... _oh_."

            Mr Matthew stroked her hand with his iron hook, cold metal against warm skin, sharp and dangerous and gentle.

            Wendy struggled to keep her composure. "It's hardly unusual," she repeated. "Unlike, for example, taking a lady to tea in the Ritz and asking her to write a series of erotic stories featuring someone very like oneself, and someone very like _her_ self. Now that is awfully unusual."

            "Touché," said Mr Matthew, withdrawing his hook. "I'm sure Doctor Freud would consider me a terrible narcissist, just as he'd consider you a sexual fetishist with an erotic fascination for amputees. It's all right," he continued, without letting her reply, "everyone has their kinks. I, for example, used to fantasise about being a pirate captain. Everybody feared me, and one or two – the most discerning – desired me, and my nemesis was a boy who wouldn't, or possibly couldn't, grow up. I'm sure Doctor Freud would say _that_ was all about my brother, my mother's favourite, who died in an ice-skating accident when he was thirteen."

            "And once you fantasized a lady onto your pirate ship," said Wendy quietly. "A girl, really, but you flattered her, and made believe she was a grown up."

            "Exactly so," said Mr Matthew. "And she told me stories, and once I whispered something in her ear."

            "That you'd come back. That she wasn't old enough yet for what she wanted, but one day she would be, and you'd come back."

 

            He had taken her to a suite on the top floor of the Ritz, which was furnished in lavish Rococco style, much as his cabin on the Jolly Roger had been. He hung up his morning coat, but lay back on the enormous bed still wearing his shirt, waistcoat and fashionably cuffed trousers.

            Wendy stood in front of him, her hands behind her back, her dress neatly folded on a dressing table. "What should I call you?" she said.

            "'Captain' is as good as anything," he replied.

            "And what will you call me, Captain?"

            "Darling, of course."

            She had wanted to return to her maiden name when she was widowed, but had kept her husband's out of respect for his family, and it thrilled her to hear it spoken in his deep, tarry voice.

            "Take off your stockings, Darling," he continued. "And your brassiere as well."

            She obeyed, and piled them neatly with her dress and beads. She tried not to think about how different her body was from when she last saw him: the belly that had borne a child, the breasts which had suckled that tiny mouth.

            "Now come here."

            She hadn't realised how tall and broad-shouldered he was until she came to nestle in his arms, resting her cheek against his big chest. His hand caressed her inner thigh, and then with a sudden, violent movement, his hook ripped her panties, baring her cunt. She gasped and closed her eyes, quivering in anticipation until she felt cold metal where she wanted it most.

            How glad she was then to have broken her promise never to grow up.

            Once he had satisfied her, she turned over and straddled his lap, her legs wrapped around his back. She  began to undo his shirt, but he flicked her hand away with his hook and pushed her backwards so he was on top, the heel of his hand pressing down hard onto her wrist.

            "What do you want?" he asked

            "You, of course."

            "Then beg for it."

            "Fuck me, Captain" she said, and then giggled. It sounded so strange, those words coming out of her mouth. Tommy – when he talked about it at all – would talk awkwardly of 'making love'. If she'd used a word like that he would probably have fainted.

            "That's not begging, Darling."

            "Fuck me, I beg you. Hard, Captain. Fuck me hard."

 

            She wished she could go to sleep in his arms, but of course that was out of the question: she had told the nurse she would be back by half past eight, and so had to leave by eight. However, the big grandfather clock told her there was enough time to sit in bed and drink cocoa

            "Why don't you get undressed?" she asked him.

            "Because I'm fond of being clothed, Darling. Why else?"

            "I think you're shy, Captain."

            He put down his cocoa cup, turned her face towards him and kissed her deeply, then pulled away and looked at her, penetrating her with those green eyes. "Perhaps I am, Darling."

            He guided her hands towards his waistcoat buttons, while he popped out the shirt studs with his hook. Then he folded back the bedclothes, and took off his suit, his shirt and his underclothes.

            His body was strong, with the muscles clearly defined, but it was not a young man's body.  Wendy's finger traced scars, lines, and moles, and some of his body hair was grey. The leather harness for his hook came all the way up his right arm, and across his chest. Wendy began to unbuckle it, but the Captain stopped her.

            "It's research," she protested. "For my writing. I need to know how it works."

            The Captain let her go, and she continued unbuckling. "You're a pervert," he said.

            "Most writers are perverts, it's part of the job." She carefully lifted the harness and pulled off the hook.

            "I wrote a play once," said the Captain. "But it wasn't very good ..."

            Wendy began to examine the scar where his wrist abruptly ended. "Was it really a crocodile that did this?" she asked.

            "... full of crass metaphors and mawkish sentimentality," he continued.

            "It must have hurt."

            "Very much."

            Together, they watched the minute hand tick-tock slowly upwards the last few degrees to the top. As it began to strike eight, Wendy closed her eyes. They kissed. When it finished striking, she stood up, put her clothes on and left.


End file.
